


Theon

by Lyanna



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Other, Post - A Storm of Swords, Rape, This is definitely not Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 03:18:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyanna/pseuds/Lyanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Theon- chapter which would easily fit into the storyline of A Storm of Swords. Spoiler alert: Don't read if you haven't watched the 3rd season of GOT or read A Dance with dragons (Although if you haven't done so yet, you probably won't do it anymore...).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Theon

Time was hard to measure in the dungeons. Whether it had been weeks, months or years since he had been taken captive, he could not say. He would sleep when he would sleep and wake when he would wake. There were no days in the blackness of his cell. Sometimes the gaolers would bring food or water, but by his judgment not daily. Time lost meaning in the dark. Time and colours, memories and distractions, the darkness stole them all. One of the first things he had forgotten was his own face. The faces of his sister, his father, the girls who had once shared his bed, they had lingered longer in his head, but had vanished all the same, leaving only the faces of the people he had betrayed. Yes, Ramsay, the bastard of Bolton, he had made sure of keeping them in his thoughts, to haunt him, accompany him in the dark, whisper to him in his sleep. Eddard Stark, honorable, majestic, a stern look on his wrinkled, bearded face. Robb Stark, who had once taken the place of a brother to him, old Ser Rodrick, the Miller’s boys. 

Alone with his thoughts, Theon found himself loathing for every little piece of distraction and human contact. Every time the heavy iron door opened to let one of the gaolers in, his heart would make a little joyful jump at the sight of the slight beam of light, the face of the man with the torch. There was the man Theon called “Weasel”, a thin grey man with a crooked nose and an impressively absent chin. A Frey, Theon assumed. He had not been here for long, which made him interesting. Then there was Barrel, a man fat enough to roll through the door, grunting with every step as if he was close to bursting, his legs seemingly way too thin to hold up the weight of the upper body, always looking close to breaking beneath him. There were others too, the old rat, lord moustache, the two Frey boys; Big Walder and Little Walder, of which Little Walder was ironically the bigger one. They were strangers in the dark, yet they were the only faces left to him except for Ramsay’s ugly head.

Although none of the guards ever answered to his questions, Theon enjoyed talking to them nonetheless. He would babble about his childhood, sometimes beg for mercy, and sometimes scream at the men, without ever earning as much as a look in his general direction. When they left, all they left behind was darkness and pain. There was pain in his left hand, where his missing little finger was sometimes still throbbing, as if it was still there, lying bare without skin. Then he would feel the stump of his finger with the left hand, to remind himself that it was not there anymore, and relief would come at an instant. Also his wrists were aching where the rusty cuffs cut into his flesh, sending an invisible line of blood trickling down his hands whenever Theon moved oddly. And there was pain in his stomach, reminding him that the gaolers had not fed him for what felt like days.

The last time he had slept, he had dreamt of a banquet in the great hall at Winterfell. The tables had been loaded with the finest of dishes, turnips drenched in cream, suckling pigs dripping in their own fat spiced with pepper and salt, cakes and wheels of cheese and fruit from the Summer Isles, a feast fit for kings. But when he had looked up, he saw that it was not the king but Ramsay Snow sitting on the chair opposite of him. And then Theon had realized that the meals on the table were crawling with maggots, green mould growing in empty eye-sockets, ants feeding on the rotting flesh and the brown peaches and grapes. Ramsay had pushed a plate towards him with a sardonic grin on his ugly face, bearing a severed wolf’s head with an onion in its mouth, covered in green and black mould. The Theon in his dream had gingerly taken the rotten head in both hands and taken a big, succulent bite out of the green snout. When Theon had woken up, he had felt so hungry that he had understood his dream-self very well.

The distant sound of footsteps made him wake from his thoughts. Like a dog who knows his master by the sound of his walk, Theon recognized the shuffled, determined footsteps of his torturer, Ramsay Snow. Instinctively he crept as far away from the door as his chains would allow it, crouching into the farthest corner of his cell. A feeling of horror crept up his throat, threatening to escape as a whimper. When he heard the keys rattling in the keyhole, he had the urge to cover his head with his hands. Yet he looked up as the bastard of Bolton entered the cell, torch in hand, and looked him straight in the face, the first thing his eyes had seen for a long time. This made Ramsay grin, parting his lips in an evil grimace. 

“Reek, Reek, Reek”, he said taunting, as he placed the torch in the fastening at the wall, closing the door shut with his other hand. This time, a whimper did escape. Each word sent the piercing memory of the flaying knife through his head. Risking a quick look, Theon glanced at Ramsay’s hip. He had not brought the knife. Relieved, Theon relaxed his remaining fingers. “Lord Snow?”, Theon said, as a way of greeting, which earned him a hard kick in the groin. Ramsay’s grin had vanished, leaving behind a mask of cruelty. “You will never call me that again”, he snapped. Then suddenly, his face lit up, as in the light of an occurring splendid idea. “I might need to teach you a little respect. You ought to love me, as befits a proper servant, a dog who loves his master…”, he said sweetly. Theon shrunk back into his corner as far as he could. Ramsay laughed. Then he grabbed hold of Theon’s pants, pulling them off his legs in one strong tug. 

“What are you doing?”, Theon mewled with horror. “Oh, we’re just getting to know each other while we’re here, all alone in the dark”, Ramsay said as he grabbed Theon’s manhood tightly with his right hand. Theon grasped, trying to wriggle away as Ramsay started rubbing his member up and down. Repulsion filled him towards the man between his legs, the man who fondled his cock, yet his body responded, making him hard. Theon flinched, but closed his eyes and decided to stop wondering, trying to imagine a pretty girl sitting in front of him. Ros maybe, or the young sweet Ariann. Suddenly, Ramsay stopped, lurching to his feet. When Theon opened his eyes, he saw the evilest grin he had ever seen on his face. “Get up”, he said. Theon, baffled by what was happening, obeyed. “What is your name?”, he asked, as he was strolling around the cell in slow, long steps. “My name is Theon Greyjoy”, Theon replied, laying all the pride he still had left into his broken, rusty voice. “I thought I had taught you better with the last flaying. Didn’t you beg me, cry, promise me you would remember?” He came closer, until he stood behind him, his wet lips so close to Theon’s ear he could feel him breathing. “You are Reek. It rhymes with weak.”, he shouted as he kicked Theon head-first to the stone-floor in the middle of the cell. He landed with a sickening crunch on his hardened cock, sending a jolt of pain through his groin that nearly made him pass out. He screamed instead. 

“You are Reek. Filth, dirt. It rhymes with Leek. Remember who you are!”, Ramsay shouted. Locking him to the floor with one strong foot, Ramsay pulled his own pants off, throwing them to the other end of the cell. Horrorstruck, Theon began to understand. “No, no please”, he begged, trying to crawl away, trying to get his hands free to protect himself, but the chains kept them stretched out to the wall. “Oh, but you know you deserve this”, Ramsay said sweetly, as he sat on Theon’s legs, the weight crushing his broken cock to the hard cold floor. “Please, please don’t”, Theon screamed. Ramsay laughed a cold dark laugh, still laughing as he shoved his own stiffened cock into Theon’s arse with one hard thrust, making him scream again. He felt Ramsay’s manhood shoving in and out, his strong hands pressing him to the hard, rough bricks underneath him, his own broken dick crashing to the floor with every ram of the bastard’s hips. Ramsay’s grunting noises were sickening, the pain in his pelvis sending little blind dots to his eyes. Theon realized that he was sobbing loudly. “Please, please…” 

With disgust he found that his body was betraying him, sending little jolts of pleasure through his groin every time Ramsay’s cock hit a certain spot inside him. Every thought circled around getting away, yet he felt his broken cock stiffening underneath him, resulting in a pain that made him scream so loud, he thought his throat would burst. “Stop”, he was sobbing, while his body seemed to have pleasure. Repulsed by himself, Theon tried to move, get up, crawl away, but Ramsay’s body locked his legs in an iron cage to the ground. The bastard seemed close to coming. He thrust harder, thrashing Theon’s body to the floor with every shove. Then he grabbed hold of his head and pushed it hard to the floor, hitting his face against the bricks with every thrust until he came, in the same moment as Theon. When his injured cock released his seed, Theon finally did pass out. Whether it was from the pain in his groin or from his head hitting against the floor, he could not have said.

When he came back, he felt nothing but pain. Ramsay was standing over him, his foot resting again on his aching back, still pushing him down while he dressed himself. He realized that he himself was still half naked, lying in a puddle of what was either blood or seed or both. He felt his whole body aching, the pain in his groin still half- blinding him. He had stopped sobbing. His head felt empty, no thoughts left but “Please, no.” There was no shame, no place for anything but pain and fear. “From now on, you will call me lord Bolton”, Ramsay Bolton said, his foot still pushing him to the floor. “Yes”, Reek breathed.


End file.
